horse-training as a way of life—reprobates and backsliders had cropped up in every generation of their family pedigree, and in his generation, he was considered a rather benign example of the pattern, since he had to go to bed at eight-thirty every night, and did not drink, smoke, or do drugs. As the scion of great hymn-singers, though, Oliver had a tune for every occasion, and lately he found himself humming one he didn’t like. The words went:
When death has come and
taken our loved ones
It leaves a home so
lonely and drear
Then do we wonder
why others prosper
Livin’ so wicked
year after year.
The chorus was meant to be reassuring:
Farther along, we’ll
know all about it
Farther along, we’ll
understand why
Cheer up, my brother,
live in the sunshine
We’ll understand it
all by and by.
Maybe, thought Oliver.
“Wicked” was a good word for Buddy Crawford, better than “maniac,” “butcher,” “madman,” “jerk,” or “shit,” the words most frequently used to describe him by other trainers, grooms who could speak English, jockeys, and jockey agents. The list of things Oliver had hated doing for the man during the four months he worked for him started with docking the already meager pay ofthe grooms for infractions like not getting the shedrows raked by 6:00 a.m. and ran right though firing riders, telling the vet to pin-fire some poor animal’s ankles, keeping toegrabs on all of the horses even after that study about toe-grabs’ increasing the chances of breakdown got all over the track, galloping horses who were sore, running early two-year-olds. Sometimes Oliver tried to distinguish what he himself had suffered at Buddy’s hands (screaming abuse if he didn’t fax the man at home about how things were at the barn before 5:30 a.m., screaming abuse if he didn’t manage to fire a rider before the rider quit, screaming abuse if an owner made any sort of complaint at all) from what others suffered, but it was all tangled together in Buddy’s wickedness. And Buddy had a philosophy of wickedness, too. It was about culling the herd. He would say, “You don’t get a Cigar by babying every horse and coddling every jockey. You get a Cigar by getting rid of whoever doesn’t want to win, horse or man, jockey or owner.”
And yet Oliver had worked for Buddy for four whole months, and conscience hadn’t made him quit, either. What had made him quit was that he had gotten so tired from his work schedule that he started sleeping with his hand on the alarm clock, to be sure he’d wake up by 2:00 a.m., in order to be at the track by 3:15. Then he’d started dreaming about not being able to get up, and waking up every hour to check the clock. He had been making good money, maybe the best money of any assistant trainer at the track, since his earnings depended in part on the winnings of Buddy’s horses. Even so, in sheer exhaustion, he had faxed Buddy his notice, and Buddy had called him instantly to scream at him that he’d intended to fire him that day, and how dare he quit before he got fired. He’d been sure after he quit that no amount of money was worth that, and he still held to this opinion.
But every horse Buddy had was winning, and good races, too, so lately he’d had his picture in the
Daily Racing Form
three times, with little squibs about his training philosophy, his toughness, his daring vision. “Finally,” he said, “everybody in my barn has got to perform and they know it. Second place is losing. The betting fans know that, and I know it.”
Oliver didn’t know how, but the horses seemed to know it, too.
A claiming race was a kind of bet. Not every horse in a race got claimed, even—or especially—when you wanted it to. You entered your horse and took your chances, but every horse Farley ran in a claiming race, Buddy was claiming and, it looked like to Oliver, running to death. As his girlfriend had pointed out to Oliver, should he
When death has come and
taken our loved ones
It leaves a home so
lonely and drear
Then do we wonder
why others prosper
Livin’ so wicked
year after year.
The chorus was meant to be reassuring:
Farther along, we’ll
know all about it
Farther along, we’ll
understand why
Cheer up, my brother,
live in the sunshine
We’ll understand it
all by and by.
Maybe, thought Oliver.
“Wicked” was a good word for Buddy Crawford, better than “maniac,” “butcher,” “madman,” “jerk,” or “shit,” the words most frequently used to describe him by other trainers, grooms who could speak English, jockeys, and jockey agents. The list of things Oliver had hated doing for the man during the four months he worked for him started with docking the already meager pay ofthe grooms for infractions like not getting the shedrows raked by 6:00 a.m. and ran right though firing riders, telling the vet to pin-fire some poor animal’s ankles, keeping toegrabs on all of the horses even after that study about toe-grabs’ increasing the chances of breakdown got all over the track, galloping horses who were sore, running early two-year-olds. Sometimes Oliver tried to distinguish what he himself had suffered at Buddy’s hands (screaming abuse if he didn’t fax the man at home about how things were at the barn before 5:30 a.m., screaming abuse if he didn’t manage to fire a rider before the rider quit, screaming abuse if an owner made any sort of complaint at all) from what others suffered, but it was all tangled together in Buddy’s wickedness. And Buddy had a philosophy of wickedness, too. It was about culling the herd. He would say, “You don’t get a Cigar by babying every horse and coddling every jockey. You get a Cigar by getting rid of whoever doesn’t want to win, horse or man, jockey or owner.”
And yet Oliver had worked for Buddy for four whole months, and conscience hadn’t made him quit, either. What had made him quit was that he had gotten so tired from his work schedule that he started sleeping with his hand on the alarm clock, to be sure he’d wake up by 2:00 a.m., in order to be at the track by 3:15. Then he’d started dreaming about not being able to get up, and waking up every hour to check the clock. He had been making good money, maybe the best money of any assistant trainer at the track, since his earnings depended in part on the winnings of Buddy’s horses. Even so, in sheer exhaustion, he had faxed Buddy his notice, and Buddy had called him instantly to scream at him that he’d intended to fire him that day, and how dare he quit before he got fired. He’d been sure after he quit that no amount of money was worth that, and he still held to this opinion.
But every horse Buddy had was winning, and good races, too, so lately he’d had his picture in the
Daily Racing Form
three times, with little squibs about his training philosophy, his toughness, his daring vision. “Finally,” he said, “everybody in my barn has got to perform and they know it. Second place is losing. The betting fans know that, and I know it.”
Oliver didn’t know how, but the horses seemed to know it, too.
A claiming race was a kind of bet. Not every horse in a race got claimed, even—or especially—when you wanted it to. You entered your horse and took your chances, but every horse Farley ran in a claiming race, Buddy was claiming and, it looked like to Oliver, running to death. As his girlfriend had pointed out to Oliver, should he
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